I used to think the Midwest was prosaic, devoid
of any real beauty; flat, flat, flat. But you must
forgive me, for I was young then and liked to think
what everyone thought, so easily swayed I was
by the swift tide of popular opinion.
Yes, time heals, but it also wakes you up.
It is ironic how the closer to death we get, the more
we appreciate the life we have.
Perhaps, though, the longer we live, the more
like a child we become; you know, the children
we were when we didn’t need to be told to be grateful
for what we had because our eyes were still fresh
with wonder, still full of stars and fire and a light
we didn’t know we’d spend the rest of our lives
trying to get back.